"Maybe we need a counter-publicity campaign," I suggested. "'1-800-HENCHMEN, Stupid Idea.' And a picture of your fist."
    Phoenix Talon was right there. "1-800-HENCHMEN, Road to Pain!"
    "I'm not sure that quite grasps the hearts and minds," Larry said diplomatically.
    "It'll grasp something else, though," he grinned.
    "Can we just get you a shovel to use?" Scott said, knowing quite well that only Larry would get the joke.
    "Haven't seen his like in a while. Hope to never see his like again." He noticed our puzzled expressions. "An old costumed hero from the '40s, Gravedigger. He would determine who was responsible for a murder through his access to forensic technology, and then once he'd discovered who was responsible, he would pummel them into oblivion with a shovel." His tone held little expression.
    "Style," Talon observed.
    "Sort of," I muttered.
    "I'm told there was a relative degree of stealth, so you'd be standing there and suddenly there's a shovel in your face." Scott's making quite a hobby out of studying previous generations of lunatics.
    "Great."
    "He wasn't much in the Game, primarily because we didn't much kill," Larry explained, "but Shovels Stevie was his sidekick. He would stab people with a small little shovel."
    "What, a garden trowel?" I was having a hard time picturing this.
    "Okay, that's just weird," Phoenix Talon judged.
    "Y'know, I don't like the World Crime League, but at least I understand their goals a little better."
    "World domination?" Scott inquired.
    "Stabbing people with shovels?" I repeated, shaking my head.
    "I've seen a lot, but I've never heard of anything like that," Thunderbolt averred.
    "He was even supposed to be a hero," Larry reminded us.
    "There's certain questions about the entire kid sidekick thing," Scott remarked.
    "We've never quite understood it," his henchman shrugged. "From a villain perspective, more deathtraps—always to the good. What were the potential deathtrap suggestions you had mentioned to him? Death of a thousand papercuts, boiling vat of glue..."
    "Chinese envelope torture," Thunderbolt suggested suddenly. "Just keep dropping envelopes."
    Larry wrote that down, too.
    "Being crushed beneath mailbags," Scott recalled.
    "Okay, not bad. Not bad. We just need to be prepared, should this guy get out of jail again."
    "He just better hope he doesn't go back to Worcester again." The cops were not going to be happy to see him again. Scott decided to call Reilly again.
    "Reilly, yeah," a tired voice answered.
    "Okay, well we caught the Postman."
    "That's good."
    "We turned him over to the state police because I thought the Worcester police...."
    "Yeah, would probably be really pissed with him. That's okay, it's a statie job anyway, he just jumped bail out here."
    "Is Count Bastard still in jail?"
    "No-ope. Lawyers from Wall, Stone, Craft and Shelley showed up here now, six and a half hours ago."
    "Thank you."
    "Same lawyer?" I asked.
    "Wall, Stone, Craft and Shelley," Scott relayed. "They showed up and got both Postal Employee Man, now the Postman, and Count Bastard out of jail."
    "We do still have Count Bastard's horn in custody," Reilly went on.
    "Do we still have Count Bastard's horn in custody?" Scott returned.
    "Yes, I just checked on it a half an hour ago."
    "Okay."
    "You have any more leads on these people?"
    "Apparently they're spreading out throughout the state."
    "Oh good. Oh wonderful. All right," he sighed.
    "Should I stop calling?"
    "No, just stop calling after eleven."
    "Sorry."
    A brief pause. "I want to inform you of something. There are certain cases in my life, certain things that come up, that I have a tendency to obsess over and get really involved in? This is not one of them. Good night, Scott."
    "Good night." He hung up. "Okay, so anyways they were all got out of jail about six and a half hours ago by Wall, Stone, Craft, and Shelley."
    Larry tapped at the computer, accessing the MEDUSA database. "Ew."
    "'Ew?' Was wir 'ew'?" Scott inquired, looking over his shoulder with a pseudopod.
    "Look at that."
    It was a lengthy case list of things like Commander Cardboard v. The City of Seattle.
    "They're probably the guys representing Phil Chlora," Scott chirped.
    "Yup. Whole bunch of cases in Seattle, recently opened up branch offices, oddly enough, here in Boston. And Chicago, and New York. They're expanding all right. Gee, I wonder what cities are currently suffering from 1-800-HENCHMEN problems?"
    "Gee, that's a really good question," I said sweetly.
    "Ah, that's where their offices are. Here's the address boss, if you want to check them out. Of course, I'm sure their client lists are...."
    "Confidential," his boss finished. "And there's nothing going to actually be in their offices."
    "No, probably not."
    "And if I break in they'll probably sue me and have me thrown off the property," he concluded.
    "You've been reading up, I see."
    "Well, they're lawyers."
    A few moments later, looking at a map of the city, Larry said softly, "They might be there."
    "An abandoned courthouse?" I guessed.
    "No. If I'm thinking about this right, this is about costumes. There are old costume shops out of business, second story stuff, underground stuff, storehouses, in the abandoned theater district."
    "Hm. That could be," Scott mused.
    "This is just a thought, you might want to check it out later. I have to get back out to Worcester. I could go for the fifteen-minute walk home, but I'd much rather take the hour cab drive."
    "Gotcha," I assured him.
    "When you didn't show up, your stage manager called your wife to see if you were there," Scott mentioned.
    Larry's pained expression was eloquent.
    The robot went on, "Something about things he couldn't quote, and call her back if they found you with some floozie."

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